Breaking the Rules
by thelittletree
Summary: This is 'Illuminating the Dark' from Vincent's POV.


Breaking the Rules

by: thelittletree

_Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer__  
Hard to be soft, tough to be tender  
Come take my pulse, the pace is on a runaway train  
Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer  
Beating like a hammer_

_Help, I'm Alive_, Metric

(Author's Note: In a review for my fic _Over and Over_, someone mentioned wanting to read about _Illuminating the Dark_ from Vincent's POV. I didn't really want to do it, and I wasn't going to. I think this little ficlet was half-written before I was sure I was actually going to post it. It actually turned out better than I thought it would. So, here it is. It obviously doesn't cover _all_ of what happened in _Illuminating_, but it does cover the important parts. And that's all I have to say.)

* * *

If I'm not careful, I can spend all day thinking about her: her smile; the way she gets my sense of humor; the spot on her jaw, just beneath her ear, that sometimes makes me tremble because I will never know what it's like to press my mouth to the soft, warm skin, or how she might sigh with pleasure at the touch of my reverential lips – how she might turn to me, smiling, to draw me into her arms and never let go. I already belong to her, whether or not she knows it – whether or not I always want to acknowledge it. I can't remember a time anymore when my life didn't revolve around her. She is light; she is air; she has become the north star I use to determine my own position. She is banana bread and tea and cards and laughter and hours of restful sleep if only because I know she is just in the other room, safe and happy.

What made me angry, more than witnessing the actual kiss, was the way he (Eike…Claviston? Clariston?) was kissing her, like she was just another woman; like he couldn't see the beautiful, complex individual behind her smile; like he thought he could afford to take for granted the wonder of her touch, or the taste of her lips, or the heat of her body.

What makes me furious is the realization that he can take it all for granted, because he isn't a patchwork of blood and pale skin and red eyes and metal; he has not sinned himself black; he is not deformed and unstable. He, in all of his playboy glamour, has been found worthy of humanity – a simple, assumed gift – and I would give anything to be him, the slimy worm.

I glance at the clock in the kitchen and scowl. Soon, I am going to have to go downstairs to dinner and pretend that nothing has happened. Not that Tifa will be fooled by my impassive silence; she knows – I know that she knows – that I want her. And I know that she wants me. At least, I thought I knew; until an hour ago, when I practically collided with her on Lily's doorstep while she had her tongue in that other man's mouth. Lily warned me that one day she would fly away from me, into someone else's arms. I didn't want to believe her, of course. I was a fool. If she's in love, I will have to let her go; though I have a feeling the final separation will rip me into pieces too small for even Lily to sew together.

I shower, dress, and spend a few minutes in front of the mirror, just to make sure nothing in my expression will give me away. I don't know what I'll say; I'm sure I won't be able to speak, let alone joke, with either of them tonight – Lily will know right away that something has happened between us. Not that there's anything she can say now to fix it, if Tifa has indeed fallen in love with this other man.

A crease of pain flickers in front of my eyes and I clench my teeth. She won't know how deeply I am hurting, I vow to myself. As long as she goes away from me quickly, she may never know. I'll have to make Lily promise to keep her silence as I fall apart, or I can imagine her divulging my condition to Tifa in the hopes of making her return. And maybe she would return. But it wouldn't be out of love, I know already; it would be out of pity.

And if there is one thing I don't want from her, it is her pity.

* * *

After ten minutes of walking in the rain, I am soaked to the bone. Tifa could've walked herself home, I tell myself for the thousandth time – if she wants this other man, all ties between us are, of a necessity, going to have to be severed. Maybe I would have followed her at a distance, just to make sure she arrived safely; but she could have left the house by herself. She should have.

Of course Lily had other plans. I might've known. If I catch a cold (admittedly, it would be the first in a very long time), it will be her fault.

It isn't long before I notice the throbbing in my limbs. Normally, when it is raining, I walk beside her to hold the umbrella over the both of us, which gives her an excuse to slip her hand into the crook of my elbow (an occurrence I perpetually look forward to), and allows us the confidence of our own little world beneath the subduing beat of the rain only inches above us. This time, I am practically walking in the middle of the road, and – although it is ludicrous to think so – I'm beginning to think my body is actually aching at the space between us.

In a few minutes, I am going to witness the end of us; she will disappear from my life and I will never again see her smile, or hear her laugh, or watch her brush her hair or sip her tea or rearrange her furniture. And I have never been so close to breaking my own rules. If I get much closer, I risk throwing caution to the wind and giving in to the terrible temptation to _claim_ her – to drop to my knees and beg her forgiveness; to promise to be anything she asks for; to tug her to the ground and – forgetting past, present, future – kiss her until I've expunged from her every memory of that other man.

She will never know how much I wanted to change my mind at this moment. She will rebound off of me like a rubber ball, and I will continue to stand until she is gone. Only then will I allow myself the luxury of crumbling.

The journey to her apartment seems to take hours…until we actually arrive. Then it begins to feel like it took no time at all. I hesitate – though I can't afford to hesitate. I can't afford to let her know that I am anything but resolved. I have to go. I have to go _now_. I turn.

"Wait, Vincent."

I take another step, and another. And then I discover that my feet will take me no further.

"We need to talk. But let's get out of this rain."

I don't want to talk. She has forfeited me, just like Lily predicted she would. She needs more than I can give her. I have failed her. And she, in all of her youth and beauty, has failed me. There is nothing left to say.

"Come upstairs with me, Vincent. Just for a few minutes."

I know I shouldn't. But there is a pleading note in her voice, and I can't pretend anymore that my deliberate ignorance hasn't hurt her, too. The difference between us, of course, is that she can move on with someone else, away from me, while I will remain forever behind, encased in the coffin of my empty apartment.

Still, I can't seem to make myself leave. Eventually, when I know I can do nothing else, I move to face her.

Her eyes begin to radiate a hope and relief that practically burns me from the inside out. Hastily, I glance away, wanting to close my eyes to the truth: she cares more than she should that she has injured my feelings. She will always care too much, I expect – and that is what will kill me in the end, I know, when she is finally married off and surrounded by children – she will still want to make me happy. But she will no longer have the power to do so.

She unlocks the door and I automatically step up to prop open it with my shoulder as she fights with Lily's cantankerous umbrella, which is at least fifty years old and as stubborn as Lily herself. I eventually managed to make a kind of peace with it, after several nasty, inconclusive battles; but, with Tifa, it has no such history. The sight of her struggling to collapse it against its will makes my jaw quiver with an inopportune chuckle. She will never know, I think, how many times a day she inadvertently captivates me – makes me smile when she doesn't realize I'm watching her; makes me laugh later when I remember the sight of her with dish soap in her hair, or tomato sauce on her elbow. She is entirely delightful.

And she will never know.

She finally manages to close the umbrella. I carefully school my expression and stare over her head, into the lobby. She glances at me; I ignore the sweep of her eyes, as real and seeking as a brush of her fingers, and follow her inside.

* * *

She was lonely, she says. She was frustrated, like me, with the state of our relationship. Unlike me, she had other options, and eventually chose one. It makes me realize how unfair, how naïve it was of me to expect her to live what would've been a celibate life – for me – for the rest of her life. She is a grown woman with needs and feelings; I feel surprised that she denied herself for this long without any promise from me of anything beyond friendship. Lily tried to tell me she might be in love with me; Tifa has been waiting for me, I know now, hoping and dreaming for the day I finally turn to her and confess my undying affection. I can deny it no longer.

Fate is cruel, I think. Now that I am infested with monsters, now that I am in for a potentially endless spread of years, the woman I love loves me back.

"There is a part of me that wants it," I confess, though saying a part of me wants her is like saying a part of me needs oxygen to survive. I fully intend to continue at this point; to tell her all of the reasons we cannot be: I am old, tainted, bitter, occasionally unsafe to be around, and likely to outlive her by centuries. She needs to understand why. I hope, at that point, that we can come to some resolution that won't destroy either, or both, of us.

But she is suddenly in front of me, and her proximity practically forces me to relive the branding feel of her hands on me through my shirt; I will probably be able to replay forever the warmth of her soft curves pressed against me. And before I can recover from the dizzying messages arcing through my body, her mouth is on mine, dipping in, hovering, until all I can think about is how much I want to kiss her. I can't stand against this, I realize dimly. She wants to force my hand. And she is succeeding.

It is with not-quite relief that I feel her withdraw; I have vowed to ensure that she will never know how tired I am of fighting myself, of holding her at arm's length, of not knowing what it feels like to run my fingers through her hair, or massage the enticing muscles of her calves, or kiss that spot below her ear. Or she would know how easy it would be for her to break down my resolve. She is offering me everything I want.

I can't…I can't accept…

"Then take it."

Her lips are touching mine again – open and sliding with the barest hint of moisture, awakening an agonizingly sweet pang of tension in my gut. I want to ask her to stop. In a moment, I am going to lose myself and everything between us will change. But I can't seem to make myself speak. I almost moan as she draws back once more; I tremble, and I wonder vaguely if she notices. This isn't right; this isn't fair; she isn't following the rules…

"I don't want to hurt you. I just want the both of us to be happy."

A lofty goal, I want to say; but then she is kissing me again – if these tortuously exquisite brushes with the divine can be called kisses – and the coiling, aching heat in my lower abdomen is becoming almost unbearable. Soon, I won't want to say no. The notion is frighteningly attractive.

"And, I think…"

Heat. _Heaven_.

"…this way, we both could be."

When another kiss isn't forthcoming, I feel a hazy confusion. It takes me a moment to gather myself enough to understand that she isn't going to take the final choice away from me; she is waiting – waiting for my answer – and I feel like I ought to be grateful. I push myself to recall exactly why I shouldn't simply lean forward in the hopes of re-establishing that wonderful connection…

Oh, yes. Monster. Tainted. Eternal. I open my mouth to explain it to her. "Tifa…"

But the hope, the trust, the _love _in her expression stops the words in my throat. She has been waiting all this time, hoping that I will someday love her back. She has placed her faith in what is left of my humanity. She has put every last part of herself on the line even though she knows I could very well break her foolish, fragile heart.

Am I really so selfish that I'm not willing to to risk everything in return?

It takes me a moment to realize that I've kissed her. But then she is kissing me back and my existence narrows to the feel of her mouth on my own and the fact that she is trying to undo my buttons. My fingers fumble at the barricade of her shirt until I'm touching skin; in a second I know I'll be too far gone to stop. I love her; I want to explain. I want to tell her that I'm afraid – that I'm _terrified_ – and that this definitely isn't a good idea; but I don't think I can live without her. And if this is the only way to keep her then I'm willing ... I'm willing to do whatever it takes ...

But then her breast is in my palm and she is tugging at the zipper of my pants. And the desire for words is swallowed up in a desire for something else entirely.

We…we're never going to make it to the bedroom.


End file.
